


Calling Home

by RenaRoo



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4134513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their fight is over and they’ve never been more lost. [Takes place between Seasons 10 and 11]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calling Home

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I’ve actually been working on this one off and on for a while, basically I just wanted to sort of explore the time before landing on Chorus and all the relationships of the Reds and Blues, as well as their feelings about back home on Earth.

She still doesn’t know these men. Doesn’t know anything about them, but she knows Wash. Or she at least thinks she still does. 

It’s why it’s easy enough to walk up to her teammate, to not flinch when he heel turns to face her. To pretend not to notice how he doesn’t even lower his firearm in her presence. 

“It’s done,” she says.

“Okay,” Washington replies.

It’s not really a joyous noise or even a relieved one. It’s just _okay_. Expected. Objective complete. 

Epsilon’s in the back of her head, whispering and murmuring and counting and breaking a little, seeming to be ignorant of the noise he’s causing in her thoughts. 

“We--” Carolina says, meaning her and her AI hivemind “--think the best choice is to get on the top of this. Epsilon can send a message to the UNSC base here. Someone should hop on it since they’re still looking for the Director.”

Washington finally seems to react fully, shifting uncomfortably and looking to the simulation troopers. His head snaps back to Carolina. “I don’t... I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Carolina.”

“Don’t worry,” Epsilon’s voice comes over Carolina’s speaker. He manifests just over her shoulder. “I’m going to make sure nothing bad happens to us.” Then, more directly to Washington. “ _Any_ of us.”

Still, Wash looks at them carefully before finally, “Okay.”

Carolina nods, still a little numb herself. “Okay.”

*

They return to this valley -- Valhalla, Epsilon calls it in her head, no hints of irony whatsoever -- and Carolina has never felt more foreign on alien soil than in that moment. 

“I GET TOP BED!!!” Caboose yells, leaping from the cycle Donut is driving and landing only after a rather disastrous roll. 

“No, you can’t climb the ladder, idiot!” Tucker says, leaping from the warthog. “I guess that leaves Carolina to my bunk. _Bow chicka--”_

“Caolina doesn’t have to share bunks with anyone, she’ll take my bunk,” Washington says -- not exactly tired or weary, not like in his conversation with her, but rather fondly as he looks over his soldiers.

Carolina’s head tilts as she nears them. “If you don’t have enough bunks in your base, I can go over to Red Base. Their facilities seem much larger--”

“No,” Tucker and Washington say unanimously.

“You’re in blue armor, baby!” Tucker crows.

“Just... believe me, Carolina,” Wash sighs, “It’ll be a lot less convoluted if you stick to the color patterns around here.”

“Yeeeaahhhh,” Caboose adds, fingers dancing rather loosely on his assault rifle for Carolina’s comfort, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Miss Church Lady.”

And in an instant, Carolina feels herself go on edge. Her fists tighten. 

“What did you just call me?”

“Woah, what the hell, Ice Queen?” Tucker exclaims, squaring himself between Caboose and Carolina. “Also, congrats, Caboose. Leave it to you to break a truce in less than a minute of arrival.”

“I think it’s because I’m so popular. It makes the other girls jealous. That’s what my sisters tell me.”

Wash puts a hand on her shoulder and it takes everything within her to not smack it off immediately. “It’s... because you have Epsilon with you,” he tries his best to translate for Caboose. “It’s... jarring, but you just have to be patient with him. It took him a while to learn not to call me Church in my -- well, _his_ armor.”

_The past doesn’t define you..._

“Alright,” Carolina sighs. “It’s okay, Caboose. I’ve been called worse things.” She gently brushes past Wash, walking toward blue base. “A lot of them by Wash under his breath after sparring practice.”

From the corner of her eye she sees Wash’s face drop. For a _moment_ \-- just a moment -- her kid brother, the fresh faced child that joined their Freelancers, the innocent man that filled his locker with cat calendars rather than Maxim is standing there looking absolutely incredulous.

“Haha seriously, Wash?”

“That’s not... ughhh.”

*

_It’ll be a few days more. They’ve got scouts pinpointed around Valhalla until the crime scene is cleared by the UNSC. Then they’re going to approach us. The other Red and Blue bases around the planets Project Freelancer directed are already being folded in.  
_

Carolina takes her patrol through the Valhalla Blue Base slow, eyes quickly examining every crevice of every room she passes. Something that goes much faster and more efficiently when there is an AI chatting away in her head. 

“It’s nice to have you back, Epsilon,” she hums out loud. “I take it the UNSC Oversight Committee took everything you told them in stride?”

_Totally. Not that they’re really fans of me._

“You’re surprisingly hard to warm up to,” Carolina chimes, looking straight ahead to the last room -- the one she has been occupying for the last two nights. “Of course, I can say that of everyone in this base.”

_Some more than others._

The pressure pad activates and the room’s door opens automatically. 

Wash, knelt beside his dresser, looks over his shoulder at her. He forces himself to do it a few seconds longer than any former special ops would really require to evaluate company. It’s a manners thing.

Carolina can’t say she either appreciates or doesn’t appreciate the effort. She’s yet to force herself to do the same for any of them.

“Greetings, Boss,” he says instead. “I just need a few seconds.”

“This would be a lot easier if you just let _me_ sleep in the rec room and you kept your spot,” she says lightly, eyes looking around the room.

Even though she has stayed here for the last few nights, it’s curious to put the man within his quarters, see them side by side. She is familiar with Agent Washington, she appraised him in Project Freelancer, fought beside him. He was -- is -- the little brother of her company, the youngest and the most innocent.

Those descriptions cannot be said for his room here, years later, in Valhalla. 

And though the evidence continues to stack against her, Carolina is still refusing to believe those descriptions no longer match the man in front of her. 

“I can’t get over how orderly you managed to keep this base,” she laughs, walking over to his bookcase. “I patrolled past Red Base this morning... the failure at managing to keep within UNSC standards are, quite frankly, amazing.” She stops and examines the volumes. She reaches for and grabs the first volume that catches her eye. “And you stack your books back ontop of each other every time I move them.”

“Yeah,” Wash finally says, getting up with a new shirt for the day. He turns to her with a stout frown. “I’d appreciate if you’d stop that by the way.”

“Stop what?” Carolina says, looking at him. “Moving your books?”

“Yes.”

She looks at him before inserting the book back. “Epsilon likes them. I read some before I sleep.”

“He should,” Wash sighs, moving past her to look over the bookshelf, inspecting it the way he once would his rifle before target practice. “They were his, got shipped from Blood Gulch when we were transferred here. I... inherited a lot of stuff.”

He reaches for the books to adjust them again.

Unable to bear the tickling at the back of her mind any longer, Carolina narrows her eyes and crosses her arms. “But not the way you arrange the books, right?”

Wash hesitates. “... no.”

“That’s how people are told to stack things when they’re institutionalized,” Carolina continues. “Why were you?”

“Which time?“ Wash asks without looking at her, his eyes focused on the books. “When they signed me off as Article 12 and sent me into a mental ward for five years? Before the Director and Counselor asked me if I thought it’d _help my mental state_ to go around picking up pieces of old friends who left me? Or when they arrested me for being a war criminal? After they accused me of helping the men I tried to kill myself to take down?” 

Carolina stares at him. Washington stares back, finger nimbly tipping the book back upright, jaw neatly squared, and his gray eyes more tired than a man his age could ever justify.  

“I’m sorry,” Carolina says. “I’m sorry what you’ve gone through, Wash. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Wash looks back to the book, gently edging it back into place. “I’m sorry, too. I know you... didn’t want to do _it_ yourself.” He looks at her, regretful. “I’m sorry I know _why_ you didn’t want to.”

Epsilon’s own apologies are whispering, bubbling in the back of her mind. Barely contained. The AI shuts himself down. He’s respecting privacy for once.

“I wondered if you did,” Carolina admits with a sigh. “But... it actually worked out. And we had as much to do with bringing the Director down as the other did.” She looks at him. “I’m sorry I can’t give you back your pistol.”

“I was never much of a pistol man anyway,” Wash sighs. 

Cracking a smile, Carolina walks over to the bedside, pointing toward the hanging kitten calendar. “You know, this is honestly the only way I knew this was your room.”

“I like cats,” Wash says in a small voice. “They’re soothing.”

Carolina laughs. 

* * *

Yoga was something that Doc got him started on, but Donut couldn’t help but feel that it is something he was just _made_ for at the end of the day. As he moves into the next stance, looking casually to his clock, he wonders where his yoga partner could be, and, well, _speak of the devil.  
_

The sliding door whisked open and Doc, still dressed in his purple armor entered, a palm pad flashing a gentle blue glow across his features, enters.

Donut smiles, sliding into a sitting pose and bending back to look at Doc. 

“Take your suit off and stay a while, won’t you?” he drawls. 

“Hm,” Doc replies distractedly, but he casually reaches upward and begins unlatching his helmet, face never turning from his palm pad. 

When the medic finally rests the pad on the lounge table and begins to unhitch his gauntlets, Donut leaps easily to his feet and starts toward Doc. 

“Something the matter, Doc? You’re being awfully quiet!”

Doc’s dark eyes turn toward him, brows knitted closely together. “Well I was just finishing up the physical exams Control -- well, I guess this Oversight Committee now -- wanted me to do for everyone before they’re shipped out. And I got to looking at the list...”

Donut, only half listening, closes the space, tongue teasing between his lips. “Lemme help you get out of all that,” he offers -- or really, more _orders_ \-- before turning Doc around with a quick twist and beginning to unlatch the back of chest piece. “Is that all?”

“Well...” Doc says lowly, voice hesitant and concerned. “I... noticed your name on the roster.”

“I meant your armor,” Donut replies with a roll of his eyes, spinning Doc back around, standing nearly nose to nose with him. His hand rests on Doc’s hips. _“Dooooc.”_

“You’re so weird sometimes,” Doc replies with a sigh, but he’s smiling still. He drops out of his bottom armor, standing in just the undergarments, matching Donut. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, I’m on the roster,” Donut repeats with a fanning wave of his hand. “I mean, of course I _am_. I’m on Red Team. Red Team’s leaving Valhalla.”

It’s then that Donut finally _really_ looks into Doc’s eyes and sees clearly what is behind that look. It’s... worry. It’s concern. 

“I’m _not_ on Red Team,” Doc reminds him in a whisper. “Or Blue.” 

“Oh,” Donut whispers. 

“Yeah.”

Donut swallows, backing off Doc for a moment. He looks off, racing a hand through his hair and thinking -- thinking _so_ hard about what all this could mean, what it could do to them. And then... he looks back, smiling bright. 

“Well, I guess... I’ll have to talk to Sarge...” Donut says slowly.

“Why?” Doc says, not following at all.

“Because, silly,” Donut laughs, “Can’t leave a Red Base unmanned. And I know a certain private just raring to volunteer for the job!” 

The medic shakes his head, holding up his hands. “Donut, you’ve got to think about this. We’re not talking about just a casual vacation. This is your chance to _go home._ To your family. You’re deciding things way too fast!”

Donut laughs, hands on his hips. “Don’t you remember one of the first things I said when you moved into Valhalla, Doc?”

Doc’s nose curls at the memory. “‘If both of us are Franks, that technically just makes us two weenies.’“

“Well, there was that,” Donut agrees before sliding to Doc’s side and slipping his arm around Doc’s shoulders. “I meant more -- ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being a Donut, it’s to cease the moment! No more regrets or second guessing!’“

“And I remember telling you that that statement made absolutely no sense to me,” Doc reminds him. “I’m serious, Donut, you’ve got to think about what you’re giving up.”

“No, Frank,” Donut responds, grabbing Doc by the shoulders and holding him at arm’s length. “ _I’m_ being serious! I don’t have to think another second about what I want to do next, because what I want to do next happens to be you!”

“Phrasing, Donut,” Doc laughs.

Donut just grins and presses forward, lips locking immediately. Doc laughs, his breath fresh and familiar against Donut’s mouth. Donut feels Doc’s hand rest snugly against the well of his back and it feels good -- feels right. 

He knows what he’s doing. There’s some things worth staying for.

*

Doc is still on the couch asleep when Donut rises, stretches, and fits into his armor without a second to spare. 

After all, he has a big talk to be ready for today!

Before latching on the helmet, Donut scrambles to Doc’s sleeping side and presses a gentle kiss into his temple, hardly retaining a giggle at the tickle of Doc’s curly hair. 

“Hmph?” Doc mutters, easing just one eye open. 

“Go back to sleep, Doc, I didn’t mean it to wake you,” Donut orders with cheer, straightening and slapping his helmet on almost too carelessly. It isn’t the way regulations say to put armor on but, well, Donut figures he falls short of regulations in more than a few areas anyway.

“What?” Doc asks, reaching toward the coffee table for his glasses. “What are you-- Wait. Donut. Wait, let’s seriously talk about this--”

“We did last night already!” Donut reminds him with a flip of his wrist. He heads toward the door. “Plus, I think you’re making this _way_ too much a deal.”

“That’s because it _is_ a deal. It’s a pretty _big_ deal. Donut!” 

Pressing forward, the Red soldier makes his way out of Red Base, certain of everything working out today. Just as planned.

And, just as predicted, Sarge is sitting at the entrance of the outpost, balanced precariously atop the boxes of equipment Grif and Donut neglected to move as ordered the day before, and studying his shotgun rather intensely. Which, of course, is all normal according to Red Base standards.

Donut stands, hands on his hips, and looks up to his leader. The bright smile might not be visible beneath the helmet, but Donut is certain it’s helpful to his cause all the same. 

“Hey, _Saaaaaaaarge!”_ He sings up to the red armored elder. 

“What-what!?” Sarge mumbles, looking around through the sights of his trusty weapon before finally settling them on Donut. “Private Donut! You are interrupting the reflections of your glorious and charming leader!”

“Oh, I know! That’s why I called up to you!” Donut replies crisply. “I was hoping to talk to you!”

Sarge hummed for a moment before shouldering his firearm. “A highly unusual request! Do I have reason to entertain it?”

“Why, sure! Plenty!”

The old sergeant grumbles plenty, but already twists off the box, sticking his landing and turning to face Donut more directly. His arms cross over his chest as he tilts his head back. It’s the best attempt the man has at making himself seemingly taller than his subordinate. 

Donut can’t help it’s many things, but those things align more with adorable than with intimidating. 

“What is it, Private?” Sarge drones out.

“Well, Sir, it’s come to my attention that the UNSC will be taking us home soon,” Donut explains, not bothering to minimize his hand gestures. His point needs to be delivered effectively, after all.

“That is correcto-mundo.”

Donut’s head tilts to the side. “And it also came to my attention that Doc isn’t charted for that ship!”

“What!?” Sarge barks.

“I know, right?” Donut adds. “He’s not leaving with us, he has to stay in Valhalla!”

Between Sarge’s _hnnggkk_ and _tkk-tkkk-Grif’s_ he manages to reach for his shotgun, pumping it. “This is unexcusable! How can Command allow such oversight! To think, O’Malley, one of the most fearsome and loathsome enemies the Red Army has ever faced, left to continue his _diabolical canoodling_ in a Red Army facility!”

“Actually, it’s just Doc,” Donut reminds his commander patiently. “O’Malley isn’t around anymore, remember? We blew up that ship!”

“Heh, we sure did,” Sarge says with a few more chuckles from the back of his throat. “Still. Doc has had associations with the Blues. I don’t like leaving him here unchallenged!”

Finally seeing his opening, Donut emphatically places his hands on his chest piece. “We can leave _me_ behind, Sarge! I mean, I’m one man that can handle this job! When it comes to handling Doc, I’m all hands on deck!”

“On Doc?”

“Yup, you could even say I’m all hands _on Doc_ if you want,” Donut continues with a waggle of his brows, more for his own effect than anything else.

Sarge shifts uneasily. “Well. I wouldn’t say that _I_ said it, but...” The red armored man once more holsters his weapon. He repositions uncomfortably, rubbing at the back of his helmet. “Listen, Donut. This is quite the assignment you’re taking on. How certain--”

“Super Duper Positive, Sarge!” Donut responds with a quick nod.

“It’ll be just the two of you until the UNSC begins shifting more Red soldiers off bases and back home, son,” Sarge says gravely. “Now, I know you’re a fantastic soldier...”

Pausing, Donut feels for his heart. “Aw... _Sarge!”_

 _“Listen,_ Donut,” Sarge continues. “You’re a good man. Under orders. I just want to be _completely sure_ that with just the two of you, you know how to handle another man--”

“Oh, man, Sarge, let me tell you _exactly_ how I handle my men--”

“Nevermind that, son,” Sarge groans. “I trust you.” He turns to face toward the garage where, if Donut’s guesses are anywhere close to being correct today, Simmons and Grif could be found bickering. “Grif! Simmons! Donut is staying behind when we leave for Earth!”

“Oh thank god,” Grif’s voice echoes back.

Donut, feeling on top of the world, prances his way back to the Red Base entrance, an uncertain but fully armored Doc standing awkwardly in the shadows.

“Are you sure about this?” Doc asks in passing.

The private just smiles back. “Absolutely.”

* * *

Washington’s arms flail in that way that, really, Tucker used to think only he and Caboose could cause. It might cause more of a chuckle if Tucker isn’t so sure that he might have to restrain the Blue leader soon.

“What do you mean you’re not all coming!?” Wash demands, voice tripping over octaves left and right.

For his credit, Sarge doesn’t seem to so much as bat an eye at the outbursts.

“Not ‘all’, Wash,” Grif speaks up from behind Sarge, the UNSC soldiers struggling to carry Grif’s gorged suitcases past them. “It’s _only_ Donut.”

“Which is like half a soldier,” Simmons pipes in. “If we’re being generous.”

“Which we usually aren’t,” Grif amends without a breath between.

Tucker, feeling a headache coming on, just rubs his temples and groans. “Jesus.”

“That’s Sargeant, Tucker--”

Hands falling exaggeratedly to his sides, Tucker groans, head rolling toward where Caboose is standing without fully committing. “Shut up, Caboose.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Wash continues to press, for reasons beyond Tucker’s understanding. “What about all the times you’ve gone on about Red Team? What about ‘leave no man behind!?’“

“Leave no man! That is correct,” Sarge responds briskly. “But when that man happens to be a soldier and you happen to _also_ leave behind plenty of ammunition and weapons, that man becomes not a man but a contingency plan! Should the forces of the Red Army ever require steadfast summons to Valhalla outpost, they will find themselves not only a quick soldier, but plenty of high grade explosives! All aimed at Doc!”

“We can only hope,” Grif mutters.

“There is no Red Army!!!” Wash decries for what might even be the tenth time that week.

“Wow, Wash, keep it up,” Tucker whistles. “Pretty soon they might even believe you.”

“PFC Tucker, you’re not helping the situation by commentating from the peanut gallery,” Wash growls.

Narrowing his eyes, Tucker _almost_ thinks of reaching for his sword. _Almost._ Wash loves pulling rank, for reasons still beyond the aqua space marine’s fathoming, but it is getting old. _Fast._

Caboose was sputtering, hands gripping to the sides of his helmet. “What!? Tucker!!! You have _peanuts!? AND_ a gall-all-lay-la!? _”_

“You know what? Screw that, Wash,” Tucker hisses. “We’re heading home now. You’re not the boss of me.”

Rounding on Tucker, Wash crosses his arms, eyes narrowed. “Private Tucker, until we find ourselves on Earth soil, you can pretty much _guarantee_ that I am still your commanding officer.”

“And I am still without peanuts!” 

“Shut up, Caboose,” Tucker growls without any heat. He turns toward the gasping UNSC soldiers still trying to figure out what to do with the Red Team luggage. “You guys said something earlier about all of us being able to use the communication systems for Out calls, right?”

“Uh, Sir, Yessir,” the soldier gasps between breaths. “There should be a Comm room between the barracks provided.”

“You’re providing barracks for us?” Simmons asks. “Shouldn’t the trip to Earth be within a day’s time after using the jump drive?”

“Nerd,” Tucker finds himself snorting at the same time as Grif.

“Yessir,” the soldier responds, “but the Chairman seemed insistent on you being provided full amenities for all your services.”

“Yeah, whatever, thanks,” Tucker says, marching toward the loading dock, passing all the Reds, Blues, and UNSC soldiers. 

Wash still seems squared off for a debate. “Wait, Tucker, where are you going?”

“To make a phone call, what do you think!?“ Tucker snarls before reaching the door frame. He turns and glares at his ‘prestigious’ leader. “Oh, and by the way, Wash...” He gives Wash the finger and heads on in, feeling completely refreshed. 

*

“HONK! HONKKKKK!”

Tucker laughs, running his hands through his hair. His feet are kicked up onto the console as Junior exuberantly describes all that has happened in the months of school since the last time they talked. And it’s wonderful, from what Tucker can discern from it. 

He ties back the dreads the best he can do one handed and slaps his knee with his free hand. 

“Aw, man! Junior, you’re a chip right off the old block, you know that? And man. I love those action shots of you. Forget those refs, if those other fifth graders were worth a dime on the court they’d know to stay out of your way, right?”

“HONK!”

“That’s right! Though don’t let them hear you say that, you might get carded. Then you get a bad rep. Chicks love bad reps, but college recruiters don’t. So you don’t want to be known for getting thrown out of games all the time and never finishing a game without technicals, _but_ don’t be known as a pansy either. Get three fouls a game. And then the ladies know you’re going places _and_ able to full court press.”

“Bow Chicka Honk Honk!”

“Hey, now. Language. Plus, dude, it’s totally weird to say that kinda stuff in front of your dad. Jesus. Aren’t you an awkward teenager yet. You should be totally keeping those thoughts away from me.”

He pulls his knees up to his chest, smiling at Junior’s enthusiastic replying. The way he bounces and waves his arms. 

“Well, what can I say?” Tucker laughs. “I guess you’re just learning to trust your dad after all the awesome fatherly advice I’ve been given you over the years.” He points at the screen, smirking. “But don’t get used to just turning off the screen when you don’t want to hear my advice, kiddo. I’m coming home. And then you’ll have the real deal Daddy-o, constantly up in your business and showing you how to get with the ladies.”

The chatter nearly disrupts the comm system, making Tucker grin ear to ear. He leans forward touching his finger tip against where Junior’s muzzle appears on screen. “I miss you real bad, kiddo. Just wait on me a little longer. Everything’s going to be awesome. We’re going to be a family together again.”

Hesitantly, he reaches toward the End Call button. His hand hovers over the button, Tucker chewing on his lip. He looks back up. “I really love ya, buddy. I can’t wait to see you--”

“HONK!” Junior signs off before Tucker even has the chance. 

The space marine sits in the caller chair, feeling a little numb and a little stunned. He stares at the black screen for a moment longer before dropping his head and sighing. 

“Yeah, see ya, too,” he mutters. Standing up and stretching, trying to get rid of the hollowness in his limbs, Tucker looks over to see Wash standing by the door. “Kids’ll break your heart, Wash.”

The freelancer frowns. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Whoa, that’s a first, big bad freelancer Agent Washington doesn’t know something,” Tucker mocks, heading out the door.

“I’m sure he misses you, too, Tucker,” Wash says assuringly.

“Of course he does!” Tucker bristles. “I’m fucking awesome!”

He continues on toward the barracks, hoping his responds sounds more confidant than he feels.

*

Tucker knows that they’ll be moving through the stars soon enough, so he tries to get as much of a view as he can through the window bay. Once this ship starts moving, it’s just going to be a dark blur for anyone outside of the observation deck and, well, it’s been a long time since he got a good look at the stars. 

The sun never liked to set in Blood Gulch or Valhalla. 

There’s a lot going through his head, he almost doesn’t notice Wash approaching from behind. Fortunately, Tucker could never be distracted enough to say the same for Caboose’s lumbering stride.

“And what are we examining at?” Caboose asks really no one, though he does manage to put himself closest to the window. “Is it the window?”

“No,” Tucker says shortly.

“We’re just getting ready, Caboose,” Wash says more easily. “I think everyone’s still a little shell shocked that we’re going home at all.”

“Oh, yeah,” Caboose says with a nod. “I’ve got lots of people who’ll be waiting on me. Like Church.”

“Church is already on the ship, idiot,” Tucker snaps. “He’s with Carolina.”

“Well that doesn’t mean he’s not waiting on me!”

Wash sighs and makes a very obvious step to set himself between the two blue soldiers. He doesn’t really seem exasperated, the way he had been with the Reds before, just like he’s playing a role in their dysfunctional little--

Not families. Tucker’s not sure what they are to each other at this point. 

“What were you doing out this way, Tucker?” Wash attempts to change topics.

“Awesome stuff,” Tucker replies with a sniff. “Then my good vibes were ruined.”

Wash hums a bit to that, able to deliver his dead-eyed unimpressed glare even with his helmet on. “Well, sorry to hear about you losing your good vibes,” he delivered dryly.

“I don’t need your sarcasm, dude,” Tucker huffs. He then waves to the window. “I was looking at the stars, okay? Don’t know if you noticed, but we’ve not exactly had a good view of them the last few years.”

“You can see the stars _very_ well from the moon!” Caboose exclaims.

“Oh, well, that makes a lot of sense actually,” Wash says almost appreciatively. 

“Yeah, I just wanted a good look before we jumped,” Tucker explains. “Seems kinda silly, spending years in space but never seeing the stars? How fucked up is that?”

“Pretty fucked,” Wash says, and for a moment Tucker almost thinks he hears the faintest chuckle.

“Wait, what does jumping do to the stars?” Caboose asks, rather alarmed. “I jumped all the time on the moon! The stars never left me.”

“Oh my _god,”_ Tucker groans.

Kinder and more patient than Tucker could ever attempt to be, Wash turns to Caboose directly. “Jumping is something the spaceship does once it gets started, Caboose. It’s... like playing leap frog in space -- when we jump on the ship it takes us farther faster by jumping over a bunch of space at once.”

“I will do my best not to jump too far while we are on board, Agent Washington,” Caboose says seriously.

“That’ll be appreciated, Caboose,” Wash sighs before looking back to Tucker. “Tucker... you know, you can still see the stars even in jump if you’re at the observation deck.”

“This isn’t my first time in a space ship, Wash,” Tucker returns.

“I know, I’m just saying, I’m sure a _decorated war hero_ would be allowed to watch if you really wanted to,” Wash says genuinely enough. “I mean, the whole of the UNSC owes you. _All_ of you.”

Tucker looks him over cautiously before taking a breath. “Yeah... I mean, yeah that sounds like a good idea.”

“Hey, uh, Agent Washington?” Caboose asks. “When the ship jumps, is it going to leap frog over the moon?” He shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know if I want to leap frog over the moon. Then we’d go straight to Earth. I don’t think I’m ready for Earth...”

Surprised, Tucker and Wash look to each other then to Cabose.

“Caboose, have you never been to Earth?” Wash asks softly. 

“I’ve been to a Earth! It was an amusement park. It wasn’t very fun,” Caboose replies offhandedly.

“Wow, dude, that’s almost sad,” Tucker says with a blink. “You’ve been to different planets before you ever went to Earth. Oh, man, you are like the stereotypical mooney--”

“Tucker,” Wash warns before turning his attention back fully to Caboose. “And don’t worry, Caboose, you’re going to love Earth. It’s a lot like the planet you’ve been on. But... we’re adapted more evolutionarily for it. And you don’t have to constantly wear your armor.”

Caboose tilts his head to the side. “But, uh, Agent Washington... what would I wear?”

“Jesus,” Tucker groans, grabbing Caboose’s arm. “C’mon, dude, we’ll explain Earth to you. I’ve got plenty of time before the jump.”

“I would like that.”

* * *

"Parades? Sure. Medicine balls manufactured with my name as a trademark used in every UNSC boarding school? Absolutely.”

“Uh huh...”

“Look, all I’m saying, Simmons, is there’s a lot more inventive ways they could celebrate us as the badass war heroes that we apparently are than taking more pictures,” Grif continues, staring into the bathroom mirror. His hair has had helmet hair for the better part of ten years now and he’s not entirely sure why that annoys him. Why _any_ of this annoys him. They’re going home, after all. He’s finally gotten everything he’s wanted since being drafted. And yet... “I mean first it’s the picture with the old dude. Who cares. Then it’s the picture with the guys who carried our luggage. Now the captain and crew want our goddamn picture? Is that all they think they can do? How about getting us a _meal_ with the captain? That’s what they do for cruises.”

“Hey, Grif!” Simmons growls from the closed stall. “You _know_ I don’t like talking in the bathroom! Why are you in here!?”

“I’m in here because I’m sick of taking pictures, Simmons,” Grif replies shortly, glancing toward the feet he can see beneath the stall door. “Pay attention.”

“God I hate you.”

“Please,” Grif responds, rolling his eyes as he roughly shakes his spiked out hair again. It only makes his mop more of a mess. “The first thing you’re going to do when we get back to Earth is track me down and continue to annoy me. You’re not going to know what to do without kissing Sarge’s ass, wishing Donut would stop asking for us to kiss his ass, or me keeping you from embarrassing yourself even further with your ass kissing.”

Smirking, Grif snaps his fingers and leans toward the mirror. Taking his hands, he runs his fingers through his hair upwards, doing his best to keep the hairs going in the same direction.

His face drops as, after removing his hands, his hair falls back into disarray, pointing everywhere. 

The sounds of a flush follow Simmons as he opens the stall door and enters the common area of the restroom, glaring toward Grif.

“Wow, good one, buddy, took you long enough,” Grif says snidely.

“I couldn’t use it with you talking in here, dumbass,” Simmons huffs in reply. “Plus -- and it pains me to say this -- but after years of using the waste disposals of the suits... I feel weird using actual facilities again.”

Grif gives Simmons a hateful eye. “There are things that I think you would be better off keeping to yourself, dude. That? One of them. The thing about being forced to play girl’s softball? Another one of them.”

The maroon soldier’s glare just carries before he finally looks down to his boots. His hand comes up, rubbing at his neck. “Hey, Grif?”

“Is this something that would be better off kept to yourself?”

“No,” Simmons replies dryly. “It’s... well. What you were saying... about after we’re back on Earth. Me tracking you down?“

“I faintly recall that conversation,” Grif retorts.

“Recall? You just said it. Like. Less than ten minutes ago!” 

Grif gives a single shoulder shrug. “I try to look to the present, Simmons. No need to worry about the past. Or the future.” He waves his hand for effect, but then gives Simmons a full look, letting him have full attention. “Anyway. What about it?”

Simmons’ mouth sharpens at angles, like his jaw is clenching as he gathers words. “I... wouldn’t have to track you down, right?” he says, voice unsure even with his eyes hardened.

Blinking, Grif tilts his head to the side. “Huh?”

“I wouldn’t have to track you down... because it’s not like we’re losing contact, right?” Simmons continues. “I mean... just because we’re going home doesn’t... it doesn’t _mean_ anything. We’re still Grif and Simmons.”

Continuing to blink, a little caught off guard, Grif is stunned. Gathering some control of himself, he coughs into his fist before shrugging. “I mean, well yeah. But I swear to god if you try to bring in Sarge or Donut on this--”

“I won’t,” Simmons says simply.

“Oh. Well. Yeah. I guess I can tolerate spending some extra time with you outside of marine stuff.” Grif sniffs. “Though I still hate your guts.”

Simmons smirks, “Heh, yeah. Of course.”

With a deep breath, Grif looks toward the door, devising an escape from the emotions trying to force themselves into the room when the door swings open. 

“Oh thank god.”

One of the UNSC soldiers looks around before settling his sights on the two of them. “Oh, sorry, Sirs, but uh. The Commander wants to see Private Grif?”

“Oh, well hell, I guess that’s me,” Grif huffs, sliding past Simmons. “Sorry, Simmons, important military business and all that. We can _totally_ continue this later.”

“Yeah, sure,” Simmons says, seemingly to no one.

*

Grif’s hackles are slightly raised as he enters the room and sees the few people other than the UNSC decorated officer at its center stop, look to the apparent Commander, and leave when she nods. Dealing with people of authority, especially one on one, has never particularly been a forte of his.

After it’s only the two of them, Grif crosses his arms suspiciously. 

“What’s going on?” he asks. “I mean, you make me walk all the way over here from the other side of the ship and--”

“Private Dexter Grif?” she says solidly. “Of...” her eyes drift awkwardly to the palm tablet, “ _Red_ Command?”

“Yeah, well, there wasn’t _actually_ a Red or Blue Command,” he reminds her dryly. “The UNSC kinda fucked us over on that one.”

The officer grimaced. “Yes, well, we’re attempting to make amends for that,” she says. Then, slowly, adds, “Beginning with honoring all of those who died for this seemingly useless conflict.”

Grif frowns. “Oh, there’s no _seemingly_ about it, Commander Lady. It was all pretty damn useless.”

She narrows her eyes. “You don’t seem to have a lot of respect for the chain of command, though I suppose with what you’ve been through that bitterness is more than a little understandable.”

Not having much to respond to that with, Grif only huffs and waits for this spiel to come back around on itself. He’s not entirely sure why he’s been summoned here and his interest is falling fast.

When she sees that he’s closed off to her, the commander looks down to the tablet again. “Your sister was stationed at an opposing Blue Command Outpost. That was most likely part of their social examination of your soldiers,” she says with a shake of her head. “I am sorry to hear that, soldier.”

“Yeah, well, like I said. We got fucked over,” he responds. “A _lot.”_

“Indeed,” she responds. Her eyes finally meet his. “Private Grif, I summoned you in here to let you know that part of the ceremonies held upon our return to Earth will be honoring those fallen, and we will be awarding you with Officer Cadet Kaikaina Grif’s medal of honor.”

The orange simulation trooper stares at her flatly. “My sister’s? Why? Just give me my own.”

Caught off guard, the commander’s shoulders drop. “Your own? This... is a medal awarded to those fallen due to the conflict caused by Project Freelancer. This is not a medal given to those alive, Private.”

Grif stares into her eyes, unmoved. “Right. So why are you trying to give one to my sister?”

The commander falls very silent.

“Private Grif,” she says lowly, “I was not aware that... I thought someone had told you before now that your sister is reported as KIA on the Project Freelancer servers--”

“Did you bring back a body?”

“Excuse me?” the woman continues to reel.

Grif gives a roll of his eyes. “Look, if there’s not a body, there’s not a way in this galaxy you’re going to convince me that my sister is dead. Do you know how many times we killed those Blue fuckers for them to keep coming back? I mean, they blew up Donut’s head and he was fine.”

“I... what...”

“Look, lady, it’s nice and all that you want to honor my sister, but she’s come back from the dead from a _lot_ worse. Until I see a _body_ I’m just going to be waiting for her to come through that door and annoy the piss out of me and eat my nachos. That’s what she does.”

The commander stares at him point blank. “Private Dexter Grif, I will be making _certain_ that you are seen by a grief counselor the moment we land on Earth.”

“Fine,” Grif says, turning on his heels and heading out the door. “But I’m not getting any medal for my sister. Especially one that says she’s dead.”

He keeps his cool all the way through the door and around the corner, listening for the slide of the doors closing. Then he punches a dent into the ship wall. 

*

Grif’s head leans back until he can feel the cold press of tile behind him. His eyes close and he breathes into the cigarette with practiced finesse. 

He tries to look a little more surprised than he is when the stall door opens and he’s met with a disapproving grimace. 

“Hey, you ever heard of a thing called manners, Simmons?” he cracks out.

“Yeah, they’re the kind of thing you have that keeps you from smoking with your best friend’s lungs,” Simmons returns dryly. 

Then, much to Grif’s eternal displeasure, Simmons continues into the stall and drops down to the floor, leaning back against the wall, looking studiously at the opposing stall wall. 

“This isn’t gay at all,” Grif huffs.

“Shut up, Grif,” Simmons says softly. He’s got something in his hands that Grif refuses to process. Even though Grif already knows what it is.

“What, they give you that for dying, too?” he growls instead.

“No,” Simmons says, still not looking toward Grif. “They gave it to Sarge who threw it at Wash who gave it to me.” He finally twitches some, acting more human than cyborg for the first time since he came into the bathroom. “It got dented a bit, but Wash thinks we can fix it.”

“I don’t want it,” Grif snaps.

“I know.”

“She’s not dead.”

“I know.”

Angrily, Grif gets up, flicking the cigarette at Simmons’ face and taking a little too much satisfaction in the way the other man sputters in place. “Don’t say shit just to patronize me, Simmons,” Grif growls. “I’m not in the mood for dealing with bullshit, alright?”

Simmons gets on one knee, glaring. “I’m _not_ patronizing you,” he says, ignorant of the click of the bathroom door. “I feel that way! I really do!”

Not even surprised with their luck, Grif glares at the door, causing Simmons to follow his eyes.

Wash stares at them, fully dressed in his armor, but his awkward stance says enough about whatever the Freelancer is thinking or even expressing. He throws up his hands and shakes his head. “Just... was just checking on you,” he mutters before backing out. 

The door slides close again. Grif glares back at Simmons. “For fuck’s sake, get off your knee.”

Simmons does, but his expression never falters. “We’re worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” Grif says. “I’m fine. There’s nothing to not be fine about, that’s what you guys don’t get.”

“Okay, fine,” Simmons says, opening up a pocket to his armor’s belt. “I’m just going to keep a hold of this.”

“Good,” Grif snorts. “I’ll use it as evidence to prove what an idiot you are when my sister shows up.”

“Yeah,” Simmons agrees without much fight in his voice. 

* * *

Wash doesn’t even know why he tries so hard with the Reds and Blues. He can’t relax long enough to just sit back and accept changes as they come like they do, but for all the good any of it does them he might as well. 

They’re going home, and Tucker was right. He _isn’t_ the boss of them anymore. They’re not his responsibility. 

They never really were.

He focuses on this train of thought, tries to settle with it the best he can, thinks real hard on it, because he _really_ doesn’t want to process whatever was going on in the bathroom. He’ll never get the full story anyway and he’s almost certain that it wasn’t what it looked like.

But maybe Tucker’s suspicions about the two were better than Wash had given the aqua space marine. Who really knew.

Instead his train of thought brings Wash to what _he’s_ going to be doing when they return to Earth, after all what can he really do after all of this? For being the only one of their ragtag team who is charged with thinking ahead, he’s never given himself that much thought.

After everything... could he retire? Could he live a productive life with society? Wash isn’t sure, nor is he particularly sure who he could even begin to share these concerns with, when he hears a commotion up ahead.

“I’m sorry if we somehow offended you --”

“Yeah, good. Because I’m _offended_ ,” Carolina’s voice preens across the hall. 

Wash turns, a little wide eyed to see his (current? former?) boss standing before two of the ship’s officers, fists on her hips. 

“It wasn’t our intention,” the officer on the left attempts again.

“Doesn’t matter,” Carolina growls. “I gave you my name, that’s the name I expect everyone to use. And _no._ You may not hold Epsilon for any further examination. He says there’s not a single other test you can run on him and he’s not feeling up to doing your ship’s job for you.“

The officers fall silent for a moment, making it a little less awkward for Wash’s approach, but not by much. 

“We only were asked to get a name from you, Agent Carolina, because the UNSC wants to reinstate all of the victims of Project Freelancer and be certain that they receive all of their full benefits--”

“ _Victims!?”_ Carolina bellows. 

“Men,” Wash finally speaks up, taking no hesitation to stand shoulder to shoulder with Carolina. “We’ve had a _very_ long few months and it’s been a hectic day. Can’t a lot of this paper work wait until we’ve landed and spoken to some of your command _in person_ first?” 

The UNSC soldiers look at him quietly, but they seem slightly more accepting of his approach. Carolina looks at him, too, but her expression’s quite a bit harder to place. _I’m sorry I can’t give you back your pistol_ still rings in his head.

“We’ll be needing your name eventually, too, Agent Washington,” the officer warns.

Not missing a beat, Wash puts his hands on his hips. “Good thing you already know it then.”

The Freelancers stand together as the UNSC officers return to deck, Wash counting the seconds in his head. 

“Nice” the voice of Church whispers through the air, though the AI doesn’t project himself.

Carolina smirks and turns to walk down the way Wash came, giving a short but hard punch to Wash’s shoulder. It doesn’t hurt much, but he rubs it all the same, trying to hide his smile. 

He gets the message and follows his sister in arms.

*

They’re not home yet, so there’s not much to celebrate, and given the short trip it’s not exactly like they were making a welcome party for the ship itself. Not corks to pop. 

He and Carolina make the emptied mess hall their own space for a bit all the same.

“I know that I’ll eventually need to tell them those things, they’re really basic things,” Carolina admits as she shoves a chip across the smooth surface of the table. Wash grabs it and puts it in his own mouth, smirking in appreciation. “But there’s no need for more people to know those really basic things than explicitly necessary.”

“Nice word choice,” Church scoffs. 

“Epsilon.”

Wash stares a the projection, chewing on the chip in his mouth until the small AI disappears. He breathes through his nose calmly. 

Carolina is staring back at him. 

“Wash,” she says calmly.

“You’re right,” he says, reaching for the bag only to have them pulled away from his grasp. “They don’t need to know our identities. It’s not like we’re the same people we were before anyway.” He can still hear the Director’s drawl as he calls the name over the communication system. “Those names don’t really fit who we are now.”

They stay in position for a moment, letting his words sink into their bones.

Then, with a bit of a childish camber, “I’m... really hungry.”

“You’re still a loser,” she laughs affectionately, throwing the bag at his face. “You just hang with such a loser crowd nowadays you look less so by comparison.”

“That’s _partially_ what it is, sure,” Wash agrees, throwing a few more chips into his mouth. 

They look at each other for a bit, an unnerving feeling between them. 

He knows what she’s thinking before she says it. 

“How much do you remember?” she asks gently. “Of... _his_ memories?”

Wash frowns, putting the bag of chips down. These turns of conversation make everything taste bad anyway. He’s had more than enough experiences with them to know. It’s just never been Carolina on the other side of the table. 

He’s also never felt compelled to truly answer them before. 

“A fair share,” he says softly. “You were a _very_ cute kid.”

She’s completely unmoved by the information, instead just blinking at him. “It didn’t last long. And he missed most of it.”

Wash hums and pulls his legs up into the seat, hugging his knees. It’s comforting a bit, to play the part of Agent Washington, the freshest Freelancer recruit, barely clinging to the leaderboard, and sometimes nowhere close to it. 

It’s not like Carolina ever bothered to drop her own act.

“So you know my name,” she says gently. “That makes you an interesting loose end.”

“What can I say,” Wash replies with a snort. “It’s a hobby of mine.”

“Little unfair,” she comments without much meaning behind it. “You know way more about me than I do you. And here I was the leader.”

“David.”

Her bright green eyes spark slightly, her head turning toward him. She blinks, surprised still.

He shrugs. “It’s... well, it’s mine.” He scowls. “Was.” His hand runs through his hair. “Hasn’t really been mine for a long time. Doesn’t exactly feel like mine now.”

“Maybe it’ll fit again,” she offers. “I can see it. You know. When I squint.”

He laughs. “Yeah, well. Maybe.”

They lapse into silence, flicking a remaining chip back and forth across the table, not caring too much for the pick up they’ll be causing maintenance later. They’re caught in the moment and there’s more than a little bitterness there where they feel owed by these people.

“Carolina?” he asks, cautious, not entirely sure he wants to continue on with this request.

“Yes?” she asks.

“I think I need to speak to him alone,” Wash sighs. “It might be our last chance to.”

“I figured.”

*

Carolina’s down the hall, doing who knows what, but she keeps in range because she knows that Epsilon’s link with Wash’s suit is superficial at best. Short range.

Epsilon could transfer to his helmet fully, but that’s only a step away from stepping into the neural implants. And that’s not going to happen.

One of the few rational fears Wash allows himself is a revisit to that scenario. Death hasn’t concerned him in a long time, losing or being seen as lesser hardly concerns him, but to _truly_ relive the implantation of Epsilon...

Well, judging by the fritzy way in which the AI sprite dances before his vision, Wash can’t help but think he’s not the only one who has this fear.

“Ha... well...” Epsilon -- Church -- coughs in front of him. It’s so forced it’s almost laughable. “This is awkward.”

“It is,” Wash says shortly. “I wonder whose fault that is.”

“Hey, man,” he starts off, all busty and unapologetic, but it’s a little too high of a note at the end. He doesn’t have anything to follow it. His sprite kicks at the air aimlessly, head hanging down. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Sighing, Wash rubs the back of his neck roughly. He’s so bad with these things. But it has to be done. He has to feel relieved of these things if he’s ever going to get anywhere.

“Look, dude, I fucked you over real bad,” Epsilon says. “I know that. And. And I regret it. For a lot of reasons. But... you were supposed to be _my_ Freelancer. I was responsible for you. And. I hurt you instead. So yeah. _Major_ fuck up. So. Just. Yell it out and say what you need to. I’m ready.”

The little AI then flinches into a ready position, curled slightly into himself.

Wash feels strangely numb to the words, the explanation. He processes it a bit, nods as he breaks it down, finds it acceptable. 

“Alright, Epsilon,” Wash agrees. “Here it goes:”

“Oh fuck you’re actually doing it.”

“I forgive you.”

The AI stares at him. “What?”

“I’m too tired for grudges, and it wasn’t your fault,” Wash says, the weariness in his bones never more self evident. “It was a _really_ fucked up thing to do. Don’t get me wrong. But you were hurting just as bad as I was. And the guy responsible for that is gone, everyone else behind bars. It’s over.”

Epsilon rubs at his own arm, still somewhat collapsed in on himself. “Yeah. It kinda is. I guess.”

“I just wanted to make sure that, between us, it was over,” Wash explains. “Because... that was fucked up.”

“Right. Okay... yeah.” Epsilon looks at him directly. “And you forgive me? It’s over.”

“It’s over,” Wash agrees.

“Okay.”

Wash doesn’t smile, he can’t _smile_ at the AI yet. He doesn’t know that he ever can. They weren’t a fit for each other, but there’s a part of him that still wishes they had been. That he could have helped Epsilon the way the others had been able to help Delta or Theta or Gamma -- 

But it’s over. No more regrets. No more anger either. 

He just looks upon Epsilon in peace. 

“Okay,” Wash repeats. 

* * *

He stays around a bit longer than he would care to admit. There’s a part of him that refuses to really delve into why, but he’s able to tolerate Grif’s general attitude better than almost anyone. And this was one of those times where Grif needs someone. 

Eventually, though, Simmons takes his fill and heads off. Or storms off, as he’s sure his comrade will spin it, but he genuinely does have something else to do.

Tucker and Caboose are blathering in the hall, not too difficult to stumble across, and Simmons approaches.

“No, idiot, we won’t jump into any black holes,” Tucker growls. “They’re professional space dudes. Let them just do their job in peace and we’ll be fine.”

“But it’s what happened in _Star Trek!”_

“No it isn’t! What movie were you _watching!?”_

Simmons stops short, feeling a compelling need to interject with nerdy corrections that he bites down on. “Hey, Caboose, Tucker.”

The two momentarily drop from their conversation and look to him with a “Hello!” and “What’s up?” at the ready.

“I’m looking for the call room, figured I need to make one before we officially take off or anything,” Simmons explains, hands involuntarily motioning with his words. Consciously, he draws them down to his sides and remembers to hold them. “Is it this way or...”

“Yeah, dude, just keep going this way and take a left. Can’t miss it. Big screen, it’s awesome,” Tucker says with a casual shrug.

“And surround sound!” Caboose calls out.

“No it doesn’t, and you wouldn’t know because you’ve not used it yet,” Tucker growls, hands reaching for his temples. “Christ, Caboose, this is like the fifth headache you’ve given me since we got on the stupid space ship.”

“You should take a Midol!”

Not even halfway wanting to hear the end of that one, Simmons continues on his way toward the call room, taking note of his surroundings as he crosses them, just in case he needs to remember a way out. 

They do have a track record with inconvenient timing and emergency situations, after all.

Once in the call room, he looks around, finds the seat at the monitor, and begins the lengthy process of putting in his coordinates and desired contact. 

It takes three tries before the screen opens to a familiar living room and the most wonderful woman in the cosmos.

Simmons smiles as large as he can, hand reaching for his hair a little shakily. It’s been a while. “Hello, Mom.”

“Richard?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says, trying his best to do so a little more clearly. “I won’t be talking for long, I just wanted to call and let you know that, hey, I’m coming home! I’ll see you soon, all that mushy stuff.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh, Richard, that’s _wonderful!_ I saw you in the news! I wondered if that meant you were coming home.”

“It does!” he says brightly. “We’re war heroes. Nothing big or special or anything.”

“Oh, heroes sounds special to me,” she says simply. “But everything you do is special, dear.”

“Yeah,” Simmons says, reaching back and rubbing his neck. “Say uh. I’m not gonna talk for long. But I want to know how you’re doing. And feeling. Just. It’s been _so long_ and I’m worried. A little. I mean obviously you’re fine and stuff...”

She tilts her head, all gray and white hair now, completely changed from before he was shipped to basic. “Oh, I’m perfectly fine. And so’s your father.”

Simmons doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

“I’m sure he’d want to talk to you,” she says, eyebrows knitting together. “But. Hm. Well, since you’re coming home soon anyway, I don’t think he’d want to stop working on one of his projects to come talk.”

“Sure,” Simmons says, a smile pushing through. “Wow, it’s great to hear from you, Mom.”

She smiles right back, eyes watery behind their glasses. “You, too, dear. You, too.”

*

He’s still feeling a bit hollow in his chest as he comes across Sarge, buckled down in a spare room, cleaning the intricate grooves of his standard issue weapon. Simmons marvels at it for a moment.

He never really had the opportunity to do these sorts of things with family, so the awkward resemblances in behavior are coincidental at best.

“Permission to enter, Sir?” Simmons asks, shuffling slightly. Conscious of his feet all of the sudden.

“Permission granted!” Sarge bellows in return, never bothering to look up.

Simmons takes his order and pulls up a stool, watching Sarge cautiously. “Uh, you _are_ cleaning that unloaded, right, Sir?”

“Of course not!” Sarge says, stopping to give Simmons a studious eye. “What would be more opportune for the enemy than to have me holding an unarmed weapon? Better to not give them an opening.”

The maroon private flatly looks at his sergeant. “Probably you shooting yourself while cleaning your weapon, Sir.”

“Bah,” Sarge says, looking down his barrel. Then, a little bit pouting, “They had me unload my weapon to board.”

“Probably for the best, Sir,” Simmons sighs with relief. 

They fall into silence a bit longer, Simmons watching, Sarge occasionally in that way that clearly says he’s not seen Grif since they came aboard. It leaves Simmons to his thoughts and his massive insecurities. He wrings his hands.

“Um, Sir?” he speaks up.

“Yes, Simmons?”

“When we return to Earth...” Simmons continues, scooting back and forth on his stool, “what are you planning on doing? I mean... Do you have a family or...” He pauses, his face heating up. He can’t help but feel like if it’s something his commanding officer has never bothered to bring up before, it’s probably not something he should be pressing. “I mean. I guess I just want to know if you want to keep in contact or not.”

Sarge pauses, staring at his shotgun. “I don’t have a family anymore, Simmons,” he says simply. “I’m a military man. That’s what I do. It’s in my blood. I don’t plan on retiring, on they can’t make me. I’m a soldier, soldier.”

Simmons blinks. “I’m pretty sure they can _make_ you retire, Sir.”

“I don’t see much point in it,” he says. “No reason to retire. My Red Blooded Brothers are the family I have.”

He watches as Sarge returns to cleaning his gun and sighs, rubbing at his neck. There’s a broken home back on Earth that has had only one person living in it for far too long, but Simmons can’t help but feel there’s more truth to Sarge’s words than Simmons’ own forceful thoughts about “home.”

He wonders, just a bit, when “home” felt a lot more like “Red Base” than Earth.

“Hey!” 

Sarge growls, grip tightening on his gun. “Damn it.”

Grif walks in as Simmons looks up, his color is better than it was when Simmons left him, and that’s good. He glares at his fellow Reds. “What the fuck is going on in the mess hall? I’ve been trying to open the doors for twenty minutes but it’s locked from the inside!”

“Sounds like it’s _locked from the inside_ then,” Simmons snaps.

“Don’t be cute.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Who went in the mess hall last?” Sarge interjects.

Grif throws up his hands dramatically. “Fucking Washington. And I think it’s Church who’s keeping the doors locked!”

Simmons blinks. “Why would Wash and Church lock themselves in? Don’t they hate each other?”

“Fuck if I know,” Grif growls.

“Dagnabit! Don’t you see what this means!?” Sarge yells, leaping to his feet. “Blue Team is cutting us off from supplies!”

“Oh, god,” Grif moans, smacking his own face.

Simmons just glares at him. “Thanks, Grif. C’mon, let’s talk him down from a mutiny.”

* * *

Tucker is glaring at Agent Washington, which Caboose thinks is pretty mean. Usually they only glare at Church that way. 

It makes sense, Caboose decides. When Church isn’t around, Agent Washington makes an okay Church. 

“This isn’t going to work, we don’t even know for sure if those are actual call coordinates or anything,” Tucker grumps.

“Have a little faith, Tucker,” Wash mutters, even if it lacks some conviction.

Caboose blinks and looks toward his fellow private. “They are _too_ numbers for what you just said.”

“Yeah?” Tucker says with a roll of his eyes. “If you really know they’re real, why aren’t _you_ putting them in instead of Wash.”

“I told Caboose he’s not allowed to touch anything that doesn’t belong to him while we’re on the space ship,” Wash replies quickly. “I would like for us to make it into actual orbit before things start to screw up for us.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Tucker huffs.

“I’ve been doing very good at the not-touching-game, Tucker,” Caboose says very matter-of-factly as Wash finally backs away from the monitor.

“Now, Caboose,” Wash says very softly, “are we _completely_ sure who is going to be on the other end of this call?”

“No,” Caboose says quickly.

“Oh, great, well hopefully at least it’s a sex hotline,” Tucker quips a touch too quick.

“Tucker,” Wash chides.

“It can be any of them,” Caboose says with a thoughtful tap of his chin. “My mom. Or my dad. Or my sisters. Or my other sisters. And then the other sisters.”

Wash and Tucker looked at each other before the screen came on to--

“Oh. My. God.” Tucker whispers. 

For his part, Wash holds his face very well. “There’s... an entire _room_ of them.”

“Oh, my _god they’re hot_ ,” Tucker seethed just before Agent Washington elbowed him, hard, in the abs, causing a choking noise that was a touch too loud.

Caboose didn’t mind, though. His sisters were all screaming in delight at him, clambering to better see him through the monitor. Caboose, in turn, excitedly threw up his arms.

“It’s okay! I’m _coming home!!!_ but we’re jumping over the moon first so you have to wait. _”_


End file.
